


Free Day

by Souja



Series: Crossposts [1]
Category: BIRDMEN - 田辺イエロウ | Tanabe Yellow
Genre: Birdmenweek2017, Gen, I should start giving these folks names, Writing practice, crossposted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-03-26 03:50:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13849485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Souja/pseuds/Souja
Summary: Written for Birdmenweek 2017! Prompt: Freeday.Some birds are nocturnal.





	1. Chapter 1

  
It was set into motion under the blanket of stars, the fruit of sleepless nights and feverish fussing. The combined brain of blurry memories and high hopes from stories told by strips of moonlight. A yearly tradition of the tiny mountain farm and its winged inhabitants.    
  
Excited eyelids screwed shut with enough pressure to squeeze seconds from the time. Faces pressed to pillows and buried even the slightest hint of unrest beneath a cocoon of flimsy cotton. Though, in all honesty, not all the snores that filled crowded rooms were faked.  
  
The older of them, the wise schemers, rose first. Fingers pulled makeshift socks from pillowcases and obscure hiding places. Messages were sent with slow hand motions. They rippled through the building, stirring the others awake. Transformed, wingmass feelers picked up on every drop of water, every rustled leaf, but also the traitorous thrums of delinquent hearts and the grinding teeth of anxious friends.  
  
The six pm buzzer shrilled and the facility began its night routine. Vengeful doors creaked shut. Defending locks took shift and snarled, “you will not pass” as they fastened in place. The supervisors made slow retreats, shutting exits and turning off lights.  

When they stilled, the children moved.  
  
Quickly. Quickly.  
  
With soundless socked feet that shuffled on shined tile, the interspersed metronome of bare toes all too conspicuous. This year the little ones did not know to make booties from discarded cloth--next year they would be more prepared.    
  
Giggled gossip betrayed the silence as the separation between barracks was breached. Sleep and teddybear soldiers were on standby, relegated to watch duties while the nights activities progress. The rendezvous was scheduled for midnight at the latest.  
  
A gloved hand raised above the chaos. Halt.  
  
Quiet, now.  
  
Mismatched light dyed the walls blue and yellow, and the lingering dark pulled shutters over their eyes. But they grasped each other, as they’d planned, and tonight they did not let go.  
  
They moved in clusters under guidance of pointed fingers till they came to the threshold of the security desk. Their first obstacle, the greatest one. A collective tension prickled down their necks as they dispersed to shadowed corners. Trembling fingers gripped tighter, pulling confidence from closeness. If they were found out there’d be hell to pay.  
  
Their leaders’ dark body moved like liquid, the shape of the impromptu in-command moving forward, toward the desk and their possible downfall.  
  
Time stopped as they approached, peering through cracks in the aged shutters. The criss-crossed windows showed supervisors snoring in blissful unaware. Surveillance cams stared intensely at decoy bodies.  
  
They waited, pressing against their hiding spots as a camera roamed overhead.  

One second.  
  
Two.  
  
And at the leaders motion the group surged on.    
  
They pushed like a torrent of fortified walls. Then crumbled like a landslide of black tumbleweeds as one of them tripped. A little one, still very new, who cried waterfalls at the slightest scrape. She sniffled.  
  
Gasps echoed and boomed. Malicious silence popped eardrums as wary glances stole back to the land they’d just cleared. They expected movement; in seconds the door would swing open and their plan would be crumbled by the angry call of a strict supervisor.

Neither came. They breathed.

Rebuking hands met tightly sealed lips. _Hush_ , they said, _this is no time to cry_.  
  
Apologies were made with a succession of decisive nods and trembling palms pressed against chapped lips. A wall of friends held her close, squeezed her hand reassuringly as they moved on.  
  
Eyes roamed, adjusting to yellow runoff light from sentry posts outside. The final threshold loomed, imposing. A metallic door with interlocking teeth and a thousand screws holding it in place. It had only one weakness, a small keyhole that frowned at them as they drew nearer.  
  
Collective breaths were held ransom and prayers played the part of payment.  
  
Another leader moved forward with the confidence of one who’d seen it happen year and year again. They’d yet to awaken, and had been in the farm long enough to know that the key was long and thin, like a withered finger, and needed to be shifted _just_ an inch to be unlocked.  
  
Dark mass snaked through skilled fingers in imitation. It slithered into the hole and the locks whirred with life. Stress weighed heavy on winged shoulders. Anticipating eyes trained craters into the working back.  
  
Muffled clicks served as rewards. The mouth opened. Their breaths were freed.  
  
And now they ran.  
  
Quickly, quickly.  
  
With dirt underfoot and frost in prickling tandem with fear, with excitement, with joy. Away from the barren no man’s land and into the safety of the trees where the only wolves walked on four legs and howled their intentions. To the fallen tree in the heart of the forest, a kingdom of moss and fungi. The bearer of the map to the promised land. Crisp leaves hissed under restless feet.  
  
Serious guardians with eyebrows knotted in concentration were relieved of their bag-guarding duties and glowed with pride. Swift movements gutted the bags. Their innards exposed dated magazines pages filched from unsuspecting supervisors. Age curled the faded edges. Oil from past holders robbed some parts of colour. The yellowed hues seemed almost natural in the searchlights.  
  
Chatter hummed now as requests were made by grubby, grabby fingers. A fallacy of order directed them to shed uniforms-- not yet they’d freeze but also at least transform first, jeeze! When they crawled through that process, they stood before the hands that knew how to make masterpieces from wingmass.  
  
(Wouldn’t it be easier to just hold hands?)  
  
(A sniff. There’s no magic in that.)  
  
So they set to making magic from wingmass. The kind that changed comrades to beasts and ghouls and beautiful sirens. Laughter rippled under a moonless sky as dreams came true.  
  
Time ticked away all too readily. Last year seemed so much slower, the curfew a distant unhappiness while they traipsed around the town. But this year, time was vigilant. Midnight warned them that time was short. Eight o’clock instructed them to move swiftly.   

So they moved.  
  
Quickly, quickly.  
  
Down through the hidden path, where burrs and trees complimented their costumes and reached down with curious fingers. But the rules follow: Do not tell them your name, do not let them see your face, and under no circumstance may they touch your wings. Suppose the same went for flirtatious flora as well.

  
They came in through the quieter part of town, where the crowds thinned out but the forest was thick. They traveled through streets with fewer homes and offed lights--young families out for the night, or older citizens with earlier bedtimes--and up to the main road, where pumpkins with grotesque faces protected homes and children flocked in groups a-plenty.  
  
They sectioned off in the shadow of a little home, where the music and howls were reduced to a low hum. The new ones sent cautious glances up the hill to their facility. Fear undid the hard work of artists, deforming masks and ruffling feathers.  
  
So hands intertwine. _Don’t worry_ , they said, _have fun_ .  
  
_And be back by the time the music stops_.


	2. Chapter 2

The seraphim flee the farm at 6:30pm. They pick a lock on the front door, walk _right next_ to the security room, and take the path down the Elmer's that leads to the dingy part of town. 

But neither of the agents assigned to the little farm watch. Fear shackles one to a lame mockery of deniability, while the other exudes an almost _too_ comfortable calm. Blue light from the monitors wash over them both. There are snacks on the nearby table while their _jobs_ and _families_ hang in the balance. Should the phone from HQ ring, or should _something_ go wrong, it’s all over. Their partner, who should  _know better_ , reaches over and takes a scone. The anxious newcomer almost doubles over.

They return to the monitors, tinkering fingers flitting with anxious motions, sharp despite their hesitant hovering over worn keyboard keys. A glare of disbelief directed at an offending partner chokes down the dry grit that borders unbearable. No words have passed between them since the-- _absolutely absurd_ plan was set into motion. They haven’t talked since disarming the gates, or leaving seraphim doors unlocked. There’s so much to lose, so much at stake. It’s a terrible decision.  
  
But.  
  
But.  
  
Their partner looks at ease. The night has taken the edge off a perpetually-clenched jaw. Their eyebrows have relaxed. They’ve laughed, for pete’s sake! At the image of one of the younger seraphs face planting, and her friends guiding her with tensed grips. When last did that happen?  
  
One eye remains trained on the drone--a begrudging compromise of ‘just in case’. Their partner pays no attention to it. All it does is feed footage of the seraph interspersing with human crowds. There’s no audio, but proper timing gets the curve of exposed mouths saying “Trick or Treat!” or enthused gushes of “Nice costume!”

  
It’d be kind of cute, if their jobs weren’t on the line.  
  
It won’t even be saved, which is kind of the worst thing about all of this.  Because if -- _when_ , says the partner-- the seraph come back, they’re to carry on as if they didn’t disarm the alarm, or purposefully time lapses of cover into the roaming cameras. They’re to lie to their superiors that the seraph stayed in place, and slept the night, and maybe fudge a tale about a potty run or two.  
  
And it hinges completely on the faith that when the crowds disperse, the winged children will troop back up the hill, through the forest, and return to their cots and barracks.  
  
Ridiculous.  
  
Their partner thinks otherwise. This is tradition according to the aging brown eyes. And plenty reason to volunteer for the overnight shift in donkeys ass nowhere.  
  
So despite the trembling fear, the bubbling knowledge that this is _wrong_ and that there will be _consequences_ and all it takes is _one bad move_ for everything to fall apart--they relax.    
  
And hope the seraph’s accelerated healing plan covers cavities as well.   
  
  
  
.

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from tumblr


End file.
